Of the Benefits of Being Overlooked
by Belphegor
Summary: Being invisible is something many people occasionally wish for. It's my experience, however, it's mostly overrated. Written for the 4th Hogan's Heroes Short-Story Speed-Writing Contest.


**Author's note**: This was fun to write, but boy, was it hard to keep under the word limit :o) The opening line is from Ralph Ellison's _Invisible Man_.

_Disclaimer: I own nothing in here except the characters I created, and I frankly have no idea where they came from. Except for Franz Würmli, who was born the second I read one of the opening lines we were provided with._

* * *

**Of the Benefits of Being Overlooked**

I am an invisible man.

Not in the literal sense, of course. I have no doubt, that, if I actually had discovered some kind of path to invisibility, my superior's superiors (among many others) would be as interested in my person as they would be in a fellow who discovered gunpowder in a world ruled by the bow and arrow.

Voluntarily or not, I always have been careful not to come under anyone's radar.

If I were a liquid, I would undoubtedly be water – tasteless, colourless, odourless. As it happens, it's quite a useful quality in my line of work; my employers value quiet efficiency, perhaps precisely because my direct superior is so absolutely incapable of one and – for all that he does pride himself on being as ruthless as effective – actually not so proficient at the other. He paces, rants and snorts, as though he were the focus of a play or a novel written for him; I do my best to blend in with the décor and let my work speak for me.

Secretaries are never the main characters, and I'm fine with that.

I wasn't always, though. Being the middle child in a family of five means you have to have at least some kind of remarkable feature, and I did not possess anything of note. Everything about me was average: my grades in school, my height, my features – brown hair, brown eyes, fairly good-looking in a homely way but too plain to be called handsome. I was not athletic, nor bookish, nor mischievous enough to stand out, and I quickly grew up to be the quiet, often overlooked child in the corner.

My childhood would certainly have been desperately lonely if it hadn't been for Basti.

Sebastian Schleicher had a year and a half on me, golden hair that shone in the sun and a warm smile, and for some strange reason he liked me from the moment we met. Of all my cousins, he was the best and brightest, the one we all had a little bit of hero-worship for; he seemed to be everything I was not – talented, sociable, and most of all so _interesting_.

Had I been an only child, no doubt I would have been quite jealous of Basti. Since I was not, my siblings and my relatives watched with some bafflement as the golden boy of my mother's family let me tag along everywhere he went, actually asked my opinion on matters he apparently deemed important, and smiled without malice when I offered it.

More than once I wished he were my brother instead of my cousin so we could see each other more often.

We grew apart as we grew older, and I came to realise that he was not in fact the flawless hero I imagined him to be – just a boy looking for companionship and an acolyte who could act as a good sounding board. As an adult, though, I sometimes wondered why Basti had chosen _me_, quiet little Franz Würmli, for a playmate and confidant, when he could have had his pick of all our relatives, quite a few of them were our age or close. Why this somewhat random deed of kindness bestowed on such an unremarkable child in a family that didn't lack in scholars and athletes.

Note that I tell you all this not to wallow in self-pity, but to emphasize just how very different my life would have been if Basti had not stepped in. Even years later (and I had not seen him for almost a decade) I still would do anything for him.

Which brings me to my current situation.

Laughable as it sounded to some of my close relatives, I found my calling in secretarial work, where my admittedly considerable talents for bookkeeping and shorthand could be put to good use. I use the term 'good' quite loosely; indeed, the fact that I was working for the Gestapo, of all things, should have put a damper on my elation at finding a reasonably stable job … I am not proud to admit that, while what I had heard of their methods (and the unspeakable things that went on in the basement) went against the most basic of my principles, I did not turn down the opportunity or protest anything, and proceeded to stick my head in the sand, so to speak.

Did I know exactly what happened to the people my superior 'processed' after he had finished with them? Nobody ever told me. Could I guess? Absolutely. But it never crossed my mind to _do_ anything about it until the month of February 1943, where I read with stupefaction the name 'Sebastian Schleicher' on one of the 'To Be Processed' arrest records.

Lightning could have struck me right there and then, I would not have noticed.

After staring at the name for God knows how long, I put everything else on hold to search every document I could find to make sure this person wasn't simply a namesake of my childhood companion's, and learn more about his arrest. My second shock of the day was caused by reading he was suspected to have been part of a group who allegedly had attacked a train from Western Europe and freed Belgian, French and Dutch 'undesirables'.

I cannot begin to describe the emotions that flooded me then after five years of active ostrich policy and careful numbing of any sense of human decency I had. Shock slowly gave way to awe and admiration, soon mingled with such a disgust with myself I had never felt before.

Later that afternoon, I made a copy of the entire file and took my first sick leave in five years.

I sought out people, sounded them out and talked to them, covering my tracks all the while; they presumably talked to others, who talked to others too. Had the matter been less urgent – and had I not a personal interest in it – I would have found the whole checking process quite reasonable, and I intimately knew they were quite right in being so cautious. Nevertheless, it was all I could do to keep working as though nothing had changed, not knowing whether Basti was safe, or had been executed or shipped off eastwards to die.

During the wait for news, I began to really think – something I had not done freely in years. To my surprise, I discovered that I did not only care for Basti's fate; I wondered about the other members of his group as well, their families, and the people they had saved from that train, whom I shockingly easily still referred to in the privacy of my mind as 'people', despite the lengths the Ministry of Propaganda was going to in order for us to believe otherwise. I wondered whether they were safe, and found myself hoping they were.

Basti was part of a convoy of prisoners attacked by an Underground cell near Kronach. The prisoners escaped, my superior had a fit, and I breathed a little more freely. Not that anyone noticed.

After thinking for a while, I made a decision.

And so I sought out the Underground people again – this time, offering my help instead of asking for theirs.

What I embarked on could be called embezzlement, with people's lives replacing money. I fiddled the books, changed names and identification photographs, fudged destinations. People still disappeared – except, this time, I knew exactly where they went, which was (hopefully) far from the criminal insanity that had gripped our country, to longer, happier lives.

My superior never suspected a thing, so busy he was obsessed over a small Luft Stalag nearby, from which he was certain prisoners somehow operated in cahoots with the Underground.

It seemed like such a harmless hobby (and such a ridiculous idea to begin with) that it never occurred to me that he may have been _right_.

And then, one spring night in early 1944, I was leaving the Gestapo office quite late through the back door of the building when I felt the cold muzzle of a gun pressed suddenly against my neck.

I instantly froze. Who wouldn't?

"One move, one sound, and you're dead," whispered a voice clearly used to giving commands, with slight accent I couldn't place. Looking out the corner of my eye, I saw that the man was wearing a Luftwaffe captain's uniform.

My first coherent thought was that there was something wrong with the insignia on the man's lapels, which matched the ones on his shoulders but not the ones on their wristbands. My second was that, if my activities had been indeed discovered, my employers would surely be the ones to capture me, or perhaps the SS, not the Luftwaffe … Anyway, whoever he was, my captor probably would not care enough to warn me against making a scene; a bullet while trying to escape was much cheaper than the whole process of sending me first to jail, then on one of _those_ eastbound trains. Unless they were planning to torture me to assess the extent of my betrayal …?

… Maybe my thinking was not _so_ coherent, after all.

"What's this guy doing here?" I heard another voice ask, this time in English – a language I fortunately knew enough of to follow a basic conversation. "There was only supposed to be the night guards and the cleaners."

"Does he look like a cleaner to you?" retorted the first voice, this time with a sharp sarcastic edge.

"For all I know, he could be. I've never seen the bloke before."

"Yeah you have. He works for Hochstetter."

The name of my superior jolted me out of my mental babbling, and I tried to steal a good look at the men who held me.

They were two, dressed in Luftwaffe uniforms (a captain and a second lieutenant), fairly tall, and looked deadly serious. I felt the second lieutenant's piercing gaze – a sort of cold fury mingled with contempt – go straight through me, but the captain, I realised, stared right at me, grim but coolly appraising.

And I realised I had seen these men before, however briefly.

When I did, my mind went blank for a second, then worked very fast. After what seemed to me like hours but was more likely to be a few seconds, I stammered in German the words I had taken great pains to commit to memory, "What mean all your questions? Who are ye then, strangers?"

The gamble was bold, and during the short time it took the fake captain to answer – sweat running down my back the whole time despite the freezing temperatures – I fully appreciated just how bold. Whether the password meant something to him or not, he could shoot me right there and then, and resume whatever secret endeavour they were on. Imagine my sheer relief when, without removing the gun from my neck, he countered in excellent German (tinged with the same odd accent), "Friends to thee; from all their need the Nibelungen folk we shall free."

I had never been more glad to hear Wagner's immortal words. It took all my self-restraint not to sag against the wall.

The 'captain' – I still could not for the life of me remember where I had seen him before – uncocked his gun, his eyes not leaving my face. His carefully neutral expression made a stark contrast with the look he gave me, one of the sharpest, keenest looks I had ever come across.

"_You_'re Tarnhelm?" he asked quietly with the ghost of a smirk, switching back to English. "Well, how about that."

"Sir," said the other man urgently, "he could be the bloody Duke of Windsor for all I care. They've been in there too long already, and we're losing time."

I did not understand the meaning of every single word, but the reason for their presence here became crystal clear.

"You want to save – rescue – friends?" I asked in haltering English.

The second man levelled a blue-eyed glare at me which was heavy enough with sarcasm that he didn't need to voice it – but he did anyway.

"No, we've all dressed up to get Hochstetter's autograph."

"You will be disappointed. He left some hours ago," I replied, hoping to come across just as sarcastic. Instead, I winced at how unsure I sounded. Caustic wit did not translate well, it seemed – or perhaps my meagre language skills were to blame.

The fake second lieutenant opened his mouth for a fitting retort, but the first man was quicker.

"Change of plans. He's coming with us."

Panic seized me, and I did my best not to show it. So far, I had conducted all my illegal activities only in terms of words and numbers; people I always had trouble dealing with. I was not at all sure I could pull off something that required actual interaction.

But I did not seem to have much of a choice in the matter.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, automatically switching back to German and hoping they would follow my lead.

The captain replied shortly – in German as well, to my great relief, "Not much. We're just going in to retrieve two escapees from Stalag 4 –" This was an obvious lie, but I decided I did not need to know the true details – "and if Hochstetter hasn't seen them yet, they might just be alive and unharmed. There's something I need you to do – if photos have been taken, destroy them. _It's vital that he doesn't see them_."

From the way he said it, it was vital not only for the two men inside, but also quite possibly for the two in front of me and perhaps even for a lot of people. I nodded, straightened my suit, and guided them around the building to the main entrance, feeling my Adam's apple bobbing up and down as I gulped.

The guards in front saluted as the fake officers walked past, and I found myself fighting an oncoming fit of giggles which fortunately died down quickly enough. As the three of us got down the stairs to the basement, I whispered, "How am I supposed to call you?"

"Captain Hartmann, Second Lieutenant Kornfeld."

"But that's –" Documents resurfaced in my memory. There were indeed two men with these names and ranks stationed at Stalag 4 under Major Bernsdorf.

"Yeah," 'Hartmann' interrupted in a lower tone, "we've done our research. Now let's get our men and get out before they think about doing theirs."

I had never set foot in the basement before, but I recognised the man who manned the desk; Sergeant Gehrts had received two warnings for breaches of discipline – meaning that he had fallen asleep at his desk around four in the morning twice in the last three years. Since the building was never truly empty and some (abominable, if the rumours were to be believed – and I was tempted to believe them) activities never quite stopped, I took it to mean that he had managed to sleep through the screams undisturbed until somebody woke him up. Thus I studied the man in front of me with a slightly horrified sort of curiosity.

He did not look up from his book as the three of us approached. To my dismay, he raised a lazy hand and picked his nose.

'Captain Hartmann' cleared his throat.

Gehrts finally deigned to raise his head and gave a start when he spotted the ranks of the men standing in front of him.

He scrambled to his feet and drew himself up for a "Heil Hitler!". What he appeared to lack in energy he made up for in fanaticism.

Hartmann – whoever he really was, I found it easier to refer to him as such – gave him the traditional Wehrmacht salute and cut right to the chase.

"I heard you captured two Allied prisoners earlier this evening," he said coolly, and I admired his impeccable self-control. Behind him, Kornfeld carelessly inspected his nails, apparently quite bored by the whole proceedings – but I caught a swift sideways glance, laden with worry, at the corridor behind Gehrts. "Two prisoners escaped from Stalag 4 yesterday. Major Bernsdorf sent me to see if they're the men you caught."

Gehrts pulled out a big book from under his desk (which I recognised as the records I sometimes got to peruse), licked his finger (the one he had used to explore his nostril, I noted with consternation) and turned the pages, before stopping at the last entry.

"Oh, yeah, the American and the Canadian. What did you say their names were?"

"I didn't," Hartmann replied curtly, "and if you'd bothered to listen you might have noticed. Bob Simmons and Antoine Taschereau."

"Huh?"

"The _names_, Sergeant."

"Do try to keep up," Kornfeld piped up, still examining his nails. "He's not a very patient man, our Captain."

"I hate repeating myself."

"He hates repeating himself."

"Exactly."

Gehrts stared at each of them in turn – he did not even spare me a glance, his gaze seemed to go right through me – and dove right back into the register.

"Yes, those were the names they gave, and they matched their identity discs. But apparently there's a problem with Tasc—Tach—the Canadian."

Hartmann frowned. "Why?"

Gehrts looked up with a helpless shrug.

"Says here he wears a French uniform. You know, the ones that still fight. But you're saying he's Canadian? That's not the same thing, is it?"

Hartmann and Kornfeld exchanged a look, then turned back to Gehrts, their faces a double study in commiseration. Kornfeld shook his head, and Hartmann answered.

"Sergeant, there are Canadians, and then there are French Canadians. It _is_ the same thing. And Major Bernsdorf wants _all_ his prisoners back, otherwise he may get impatient and have a word with Lieutenant Colonel Preisner. You know who Lieutenant Colonel Preisner is, don't you?"

Gehrts' face had gone a pasty colour all of a sudden, and I honestly couldn't blame him. Lieutenant Colonel Preisner was Major Hochstetter's direct superior, a cold, frankly frightening man who was the main reason Hochstetter's obsession remained at a personal level; he had little to no patience for my superior's ramblings.

"But," Gehrts stammered, "when Major Hochstetter comes in tomorrow morning, he'll –"

"He'll see these papers, signed by Major Bernsdorf and Lieutenant Colonel Preisner, saying we're taking full responsibility for the prisoners, and he can come over to Stalag 4 anytime to interrogate them." Hartmann produced a few typed documents, which when I stole a look at them appeared quite official and genuine. "But if you really insist, we can call Lieutenant Colonel Preisner, or Major Bernsdorf – I'm sure they'll be delighted to have their nightcap interrupted by a phone call."

Sergeant Gehrts shifted, looking more uncomfortable than humanly possible.

"I'd still like to ask –"

"Lieutenant Colonel Preis—?"

"No!" Perhaps it was the overuse of the rank and name – it must have been akin to a particularly subtle form of torture – but it was making Gehrts squirm on the spot. He looked up to Hartmann in desperation. "But I'm calling Major Bernsdorf for confirmation. I can't let two of our prisoners go with you without asking your superior; my lieutenant would have my head!"

"He'd probably use it more than you," Kornfeld muttered in a stage whisper, quite loud enough for Gehrts to hear. The SS sergeant flushed and picked up the receiver.

I clenched my fists convulsively. Surely this was the moment when the whole treachery would be revealed.

"Sergeant Gehrts, from the Gestapo headquarters in – yes, I know it's late, but I really need to ask … Yes. Major Bersndorf. Yes, I'll hold."

I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone absolutely dry. Any minute now, Major Bersndorf would call the two fake officers' bluff and we would all be arrested. Any minute now …

"Major Bernsdorf? I'm sorry to disturb you at this – I know, but –" From the sounds coming from the receiver, Gehrts clearly must have been on the wrong side of his worst dressing-down since childhood. He opened and closed his mouth wordlessly, looking from Hartmann to Kornfeld as though for help, while the voice at the other end of the line raged on. "Yes, they're here, but – look, we've got two prisoners, and we wanted to interrogate them more thoroughly before … Simmons and Tasch—T—yes, exactly. Oh … Of course. Right away, Major. What? Oh, yes, I will. Good night, Major."

He put the receiver down and took a deep breath that sounded a little ragged.

"He said you could take them back to camp."

"Is that all he said?" Hartmann asked dryly. Gehrts shot him a pained look. "All right. Just fetch our prisoners."

To my relief, when Gehrts opened the doors of their respective cells, the two men – a tall, gangly American and a small, dark-haired Frenchman – walked out on their own two feet – they did appear slightly pale, but did not show any sign of ill treatment. Their eyes opened wide in recognition when they spotted Hartmann and Kornfeld, and a flicker of happy relief showed for a second before they adopted a stony expression.

"Boys, boys," Hartmann tutted as though he were speaking to a pair of troublesome children. "When will you learn? Ah, well. Take them to the truck, Lieutenant."

Kornfeld produced his gun, and they obediently raised their hands and walked up the stairs ahead of him. Hartmann stepped closer to Gehrts for a private conversation, but shot a sharp look at me – and at the records book Gehrts had left on the desk.

Lifting the few pictures of the two men from the book, plus a few others to make the whole thing appear less suspicious, was a matter of seconds.

Gehrts never even glanced at me, except for a second as I left before Hartmann.

Before they left the building, I gave Hartmann the photos, wished them luck, and shook his hand. It made me inordinately proud, and although I did my best not to let it show, the sudden twinkle in his eye told me I was not fooling him the slightest.

Business continued as usual until July, when Major Hochstetter dragged me along to Stalag 13 to 'investigate' Kommandant Klink's bookkeeping.

A little after Hochstetter bullied Klink into fleeing his own office, a very familiar-looking American prisoner sauntered in and greeted us cheerfully.

Major Hochstetter was not pleased, to say the least.

"What is this man doing here?"

"Gee, I don't know, Major, I thought he came with you."

"I meant _you_, Hogan! I know who Würfel –"

"Würmli," I corrected _sotto voce_. I'd been working for him for almost six years, for Heaven's sake.

"– who my own secretary is!"

"That's obvious. Würmli, huh?"

I gave him a terse nod, not wanting to hint I knew him. He had probably forgotten me anyway.

"Franz Würmli. And you are …?"

"This is Colonel Hogan, the senior POW officer, who's just about to _leave_," Major Hochstetter snarled.

Colonel Hogan grinned, and turned to the door. Before he went, however, he looked at me – a familiar sharp, keen look.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" He barely sounded mildly curious.

"I shouldn't think so, Colonel," I replied in a neutral tone.

He grinned again, the expression in his piercing dark eyes slightly warmer.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Well, have fun with the books, Major. See you around, Würmli."

This time he closed the door and did not turn back.

As I resumed my work, I realised with an inner jolt that Colonel Hogan probably remembered perfectly who I was, and did not seem likely to forget. A stranger who had seen me for all of thirty minutes months ago remembered me better than my own employer. For me, this was an entirely novel experience.

In the following months, I often hoped I would be able to remain inconspicuous and unnoticeable until the war ended, one way or another. But I was also quite grateful there was at least one person who saw and remembered me.

Being an invisible man is both underrated and overrated, in my opinion.

* * *

This was quite an experience! I loved writing it, though. Quite interesting, and I think I like poor Würmli a lot, bland though he thinks he is. He's a bit pompous, but he's fun to write :o)

Also, I apologise to all the Québécois(e) on behalf of Hogan and Newkirk, who were of course lying through their teeth. And Gehrts is an idiot anyway.

Thanks a lot to 96Hubbles for organising the contest!


End file.
